


indiscretions

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Flirting, Grey Warden Stamina, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining, Rumors, Warden Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-05 05:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: “It’s not my fault you’re half a clock’s turn at most from finding yourself invited into a baron’s bedchamber,” Cullen answered, prim, as dignified as he could manage. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or frown. Now that Parlieu was gone, it all seemed so stupid, silly, and the thought of Carver going off for the night with an Orlesian baron was untenable to him. “I hope you’re prepared for a few rumors.”“About Warden stamina, an interested noblemen, and the possibility of taking the great Commander Cullen to bed?” Carver asked, a strange twist overcoming his features. “I’m sure I could do worse.”





	indiscretions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cinereous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinereous/gifts).

The sound of a few more murmurs drifted toward Cullen, not unusual in a palace full of whispers, but unsettling all the same. He hadn’t been comfortable since he stepped into Halamshiral and he didn’t expect he’d be comfortable again until they were all back in Skyhold, safe and free of convenient, sleek weapons in the back. It was hard, sometimes, not to fall into old Ferelden patterns even though he hadn’t been home in years, not truly, and scoff at how many Orlesians surrounded him, perfumed and puffed up and—

The murmurs grew louder, loud enough that Cullen couldn’t stand it. Until this point, he’d kept his eyes forward, pretended he wasn’t hearing all the scandalous talk happening around him. So little of it was useful—or true, at least he hoped—that his best bet was ignoring it and everyone around him. A stray pinch here or there sometimes caught him off guard, but he mostly kept his head.

Hadn’t embarrassed himself yet anyway.

So long as he remained at parade rest and kept a serious look on his face, he’d be fine. Besides, Leliana was nearby. If he truly got into trouble…

He glanced toward one of the open doors, took in the dark, inky blackness of the sky, and imagined it wouldn’t be too much longer before they could get out of here and go back to the ridiculously sumptuous appointments the Empress had offered to them. They’d be leaving in the morning, but the Inquisitor wasn’t willing to decline one last night of the Empress’s generosity, much as she and nearly everyone else in attendance may have wanted to return to Skyhold.

“My, aren’t you a fine specimen, Monsieur Hawke,” a man was saying and that was enough to snap Cullen’s attention from his self-imposed fugue state. It was one thing to harass Cullen; he’d signed up for this the minute he joined the Inquisition and took on the mantle of Commander of the Inquisition forces. It was another to harass a man under his command, who was only here because the Inquisitor wanted a show of strength and his sword arm was considerably more impressive than most of the recruits Cullen had cobbled together from what few Templars could be rescued from Samson’s treachery.

If the truth was a little bit closer to the mark than Cullen was comfortable with admitting, that wasn’t Carver’s problem or concern, and the least Cullen could do was unstick himself from his wall and save him from Baron Parlieu’s careless interest.

“Is it true what they say about Warden stamina?” the baron asked, intrigued. “I have heard such tales as would make a schoolboy blush.”

“Oh, yes,” Carver said, a note of disbelieving amusement in his reply. “Wardens can go all night when the whim takes them. Practically gods by the sounds you can hear from their tents…”

He sounded so strikingly Ferelden in this country, his accent blunt compared to the more melodious Orlesian tones, that Cullen’s chest ached with homesickness, his lungs squeezing the breath out of his body. It didn’t matter that he was talking about such coarse topics right here where the Empress or anyone might here. The last thing he needed, in truth, was to think about Warden stamina. He’d heard more than enough ribald commentary back when the more troublesome Hawke sibling was tromping about his ramparts, arguing with Stroud all the while, back when they still could believe, at least a little bit, in the Grey Wardens. Back then, it wasn’t so troubling. Then again, back then, Carver hadn’t yet arrived to act as a liaison between the Inquisition and Weisshaupt.

Now Cullen believed in Carver and so, surprisingly, did a lot of other members of the Inquisition who were left reeling by the revelation that the Wardens had, almost to a man, been turned from their purpose to blood magic. It had been enough even to turn Cullen’s stomach and he hadn’t slept well for over a month after.

But in the time between Kirkwall and now, something had changed in Carver, and much for the better. It couldn’t have been easy to have a sister like Marian Hawke in a city like Kirkwall. Few, if any, were at their best in such a place as it. Free from that place and his sister’s shadow, he grew into his own. He was still sometimes moody, sometimes biting, sometimes got too close to the parts of you you didn’t want exposed. But he was reliable and he spoke plainly and he accepted every criticism of the Wardens with more equanimity than Cullen would have expected.

He wanted to do right by his principles. Cullen couldn’t fault him for that.

And it was now Cullen’s job to step in before someone caused an incident. Sometimes, being in charge wasn’t anything like what he’d imagined when he was a kid who only wanted respect and to be respectable. Look where he was now. Running interference with Orlesian nobility.

“That is quite something,” the baron replied, as though he wasn’t expecting Carver’s forthrightness. Few people were prepared and though something tight and hot and a little ugly settled in Cullen’s stomach, he couldn’t help but laugh a little at the waver in the baron’s voice, the longing, the way he cleared his throat in surprise. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but it was nice not to be alone in this particular boat. Carver was a good-looking man, drew looks just about everywhere he went. As far as Cullen knew—not that he went searching for confirmation—he never took anybody up on their advances, subtle or overt or somewhere in-between.

The baron’s eyes roved the room and there was a faint flush on his cheeks. His gaze settled on Cullen and Cullen was only a little offended that he seemed to consider Cullen the lesser threat as Cullen approached. “Ah, Commander,” he said, as guilty as a child caught with his hand in a sweets jar. “I believe you are acquainted with our Warden here? He tells such wild stories…”

Cullen didn’t often feel the urge to tease, but Carver’s hand was pressed against his mouth to hide his smirk and his eyes were sparkling in the dancing overhead lights, and Cullen maybe, just this once, wanted to surprise him the way he kept surprising Cullen. If he got a bit of revenge against an Orlesian noble, well, Cullen was only human. “It is my own misfortune that I cannot personally attest to the veracity of Warden Hawke’s claim,” Cullen said, forcing the note of wistfulness from his voice that would be there if he didn’t check himself.

“A pity,” the baron interjected.

“Mmm,” Cullen agreed, distracted in a pleasant, superior way. An affectation entirely, but he hoped it took the attention off the fact that he considered it as much of a pity as Parlieu did. This was headed suddenly into dangerous territory, but that was the way in Orlais. All words were weapons. “But Hawke is honest to a fault. I would accept anything he told me in good faith as the truth.”

Carver coughed. Well, in truth he laughed, but he made it sound like a cough. Good enough of one that Cullen was almost convinced. He clapped his hand on Carver’s back and thumped a few times, a comradely smile on his mouth.

In a bit of a daze, Parlieu bid them his, likely short-lived, farewells. Halfway across the room, he turned and looked back at Carver briefly, as Carver offered a small wave in return. There was a grin plastered to his mouth, fake as anything Cullen had ever seen, reminding Cullen of the elder Hawke. Then Parlieu looked Cullen’s way. Even from this far, Cullen could see the consideration in his eyes, the connecting of dots that did not need to be connected.

Carver leaned close to Cullen and said, “It’s an excellent thing that you’re a better savior on the field of battle than you are in the Winter Palace, Commander.”

Hearing Carver call him by his title wasn’t a particularly odd occurrence, but it always seemed to do things to him anyway. Which was stupid because he didn’t have any particular fondness for it and certainly didn’t derive any satisfaction from it. Cullen just liked the way Carver’s voice sounded around it, the broad, warm shape of it in his mouth.

“It’s not my fault you’re half a clock’s turn at most from finding yourself invited into a baron’s bedchamber,” Cullen answered, prim, as dignified as he could manage. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or frown. Now that Parlieu was gone, it all seemed so stupid, silly, and the thought of Carver going off for the night with an Orlesian baron was untenable to him. “I hope you’re prepared for a few rumors.”

“About Warden stamina, an interested noblemen, and the possibility of taking the great Commander Cullen to bed?” Carver asked, a strange twist overcoming his features. “I’m sure I could do worse.”

“I was hoping you might have missed that last,” he admitted, wincing. “Sorry. I could have handled it better perhaps.”

Carver shrugged. “It’s Orlais.” _What can you do,_ he didn’t have to say. There was nothing to be done about Orlais. You weathered the experience or you found yourself a countrywide laughingstock. “I’m sure the real tragedy is only one of them is true.”

“I’ve heard the baron is quite handsome beneath his mask,” Cullen said, though he knew no such thing. It just sounded like the sort of thing a disinterested party would say. Cullen’s hand scraped across his jaw, stubble prickling his palm. What an image he projected to these people he neither cared for nor respected. He should have been ashamed of himself maybe. His mother certainly would have been.

Carver huffed, his amusement dampened by a hint of annoyance. It tweaked Cullen’s interest, but Cullen didn’t dare hope. Carver opened his mouth to say something, but the last of the bells sounded, indicating it was now perfectly acceptable for one to make for better accommodations. Already, pairs and larger groups peeled away from one another, all of them heading toward the guest quarters with striking ease and familiarity. There was an inscrutable look on his face when Cullen dared to glance his way.

Cullen was about to say something when Carver spoke. “You have to know that’s not what I meant.” Though the words were spoken plainly, Cullen still had a hard time parsing what Carver was saying. He could tell what it sounded like. He wasn’t as much a fool as to not realize he was saying _something_. But his mind just couldn’t believe what Carver was implying. As he returned Cullen’s glance, Cullen saw something shift in him, cataclysmal. It was like seeing Carver again for the first time, but also seeing his own emotions reflected back at him.

It startled Cullen, how quickly that registered with him. Almost before he could imagine it, his body ached with need. His skin prickled and flushed, heat racing through him, permeating every inch of this Maker-forsaken uniform. He wanted it gone. And more than that, he wanted Carver’s gone, too.

And all this time, he’d had no idea, none whatsoever, that Carver might have felt anything for him beyond a grudging respect of the authority Cullen had carved out with the Inquisition.

He felt like a fool, pain lancing through him at the accidental harm he’d done to Carver in the meantime. Truly, how had he been so blind? It seemed obvious when expressed to him now, in this way. It was like Carver couldn’t hide it if he tried. And Cullen had never seen it, not once, not even a glimmer of it.

Carver drew in a deep breath. “There was a time when I wanted to become a Templar,” he admitted with a grimace, as well he should. “Long ago. I know it’s probably not what you want to hear, but it was because, I think in part, due to your influence. You were one of the most… honorable men I knew in Kirkwall.” His dubiousness was clear enough in his voice and Cullen couldn’t help but laugh bitterly in turn.

“That isn’t saying much. There wasn’t much of honor in me at the time.” Too bitter, too angry. He’d done many things he regretted. And perhaps only a few that he didn’t. It was no life worth emulating and Cullen was glad he hadn’t ended up with the Templars, for all that he was damned in other ways.

“No, but we were both young and stupid, weren’t we? My point is, I liked you. Even back then. I think half of Kirkwall did. Marian made fun of me for it sometimes, though I don’t think she realized what I intended to do.” He shrugged, like it hardly mattered that he almost died, that Hawke had handed him over to the Wardens in exchange for a few more years of his life. “I never really stopped liking you even after I left. And then you ended up being stupidly heroic despite yourself and…” Carver’s palms opened. “It was when you helped my sister in the Gallows, stood up to Meredith, that it really did me in.”

So many arguments crowded Cullen’s tongue that he couldn’t even decide where to start. Carver was wrong in so many ways. One incident didn’t undo ten or more years of… not even Cullen’s year with the Inquisition undid any of it. That Carver could still feel anything beyond disdain or disgust almost turned Cullen’s stomach. Almost. But not quite. No, much to Cullen’s enduring chagrin, he felt something like hope, too. Optimism crested within him and spilled across his thoughts.

It wasn’t anything like redemption. Merely a release of pressure maybe. But it was enough for Cullen to take a risk, make a gamble, push aside his own feelings for a few moments and—

Carver’s jaw was smooth beneath Cullen’s palm, the skin softer than Cullen might have expected. Of course, Cullen hadn’t known to expect anything, because he didn’t know what he was going to do until it was done, titters from the people closest to them his first indication that he’d done anything strange at all. His first instinct—and the one he tried to go with—was to pull his hand away as though burned. But Carver was quicker than him and wrapped his fingers around Cullen’s wrist, stronger than any metal vice, keeping his hand right where it was, fully securing his mortification at having done such a thing where anyone could see.

It wasn’t right or good to put that kind of pressure on a person in public.

Carver threaded their fingers together and squeezed tightly, like he was worried that Cullen would be the one to let go, a perfectly reasonable fear, since Cullen was going to try for a second time to do just that, unable to accept that his advance, small as it was, would be wanted or accepted. It didn’t matter what Carver said; it still seemed like an illusion, something to be feared and distrusted. But Cullen knew what those were like and they probably wouldn’t prominently feature this much of his own embarrassment or quite so many Orlesians.

Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep, steadying breath and told himself that this was real.

They’d probably be gossiped about, but when Carver jerked his head toward the stairs that led to the guest quarters, Cullen followed with few regrets, except the one that trailed after him once Carver let go of him, giving in to propriety as they neared Leliana and Josephine.

“Do we expect any more…” Carver hummed thoughtfully, as though trying to find a diplomatic way to rephrase the night as anything other than a disaster. “…political maneuvers tonight?”

Not the best euphemism Carver could have come up with, but better than Cullen would have managed. Even Josephine nodded her approval at it.

“No, I believe the Inquisitor has fully released us from further duties tonight,” Leliana replied. “Except for our dear Josie here.” To Josephine, she offered a sympathetic smile. “The work is never entirely done in Empress Celene’s court, but the danger is past, I believe.”

Cullen’s shoulders straightened under the weight of his guilt. “Do you need any assistance, Josephine?” There wasn’t a lot that Cullen could do except stand around and look vaguely menacing, but threats of that sort never seemed to fly in Orlais, and certainly not for anyone with hair as blond and curling as his if the chatter was anything to go by. He could have cut any of these silly nobles open at any point and none of them even seemed to realize it. At least in Ferelden, even Kirkwall, he might have earned a degree of respect for that fact.

“I don’t believe so, no.” Josephine’s hand wafted indifferently through the air, cutting through Cullen’s concerns with the efficiency of a knife. “It is all just formalities at this point and the Empress does not wish to be further embarrassed by the possibility that her own security is insufficient to protect the Inquisitor from harm. Bringing you in would cause more offense than it is worth and I think the Inquisitor is weary of such concerns. She only wishes to get these talks over with and move on.”

A sentiment that Cullen couldn’t help but agree with.

But Cullen’s eyes narrowed as he tried to decide if she was telling the truth or not. It sounded reasonable, but this was Orlais. Also, she didn’t take into consideration the very real possibility that he didn’t trust the Empress or her security. But then he looked Carver’s way and noted how Carver wouldn’t meet his gaze and decided that as little as he trusted Celene, he trusted Josephine in much greater measure than that. “You’ll call if you need something?”

Josephine inclined her head. “I will do that, of course.”

“Offer the Inquisitor my…” There wasn’t a good way to finish the thought. Gratitude was probably the closest, though that wasn’t the right thing either. “Let her know I am relieved that she made it through tonight unscathed.” He considered saying more, but merely nodded and accepted the reprieve for what it was and with as much grace as he could muster. The guilt didn’t totally lift, but the burden eased, and the fact that he had something to look forward to other than an empty room made it more palatable.

It was worse back in Skyhold in a way, though he had his work to occupy him much of the time. Still, the Winter Palace’s rooms were large and left Cullen feeling hollow inside. The whole time they were here he tried to avoid going back with mixed success. He didn’t much like the public spaces where people seemed to adjourn at all hours of the day and night and none of the other members of the Inquisition seemed to have the same trouble as he did.

It was not, he’d decided, his lot in life to feel settled anywhere. He hadn’t felt at home since Kinloch at the latest, though in retrospect he thought maybe even that was a lie.

“Would you prefer yours or mine?” Carver asked, quiet. Much of the early rush had dissipated. The hallways were largely clear. Nobody seemed to have overheard them anyway, focused entirely on their partner or partners, those few who remained, leaning against walls or statues or pushed into corners where they could touch and talk to one another with a modicum of privacy.

It wasn’t a question he was prepared for, though both options had their benefits. “Mine,” he finally said. At worst, he would face a rebuff if Carver didn’t want to stay when—and it was inevitable already, Cullen knew—Cullen offered, but at least he wouldn’t be imposing, wanting to stay himself when Carver might not want him there through the night. Besides, Carver had already been brave once tonight in sharing his feelings with Cullen. The least Cullen could do in return was the same. “If it’s all the same to you.”

There was an unreadable expression on Carver’s face as he said it, but Carver nodded and gestured for him to lead the way. They were quiet the rest of the way, as though both of them knew they were approaching something they couldn’t step back from. These were the last moments during which their lives might go back to the way they were. It was no wonder to Cullen that his own steps hesitated before the ornately carved door of his room.

“Well, are you going to let me in?” Carver asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. Cullen was eager to do just that, but he couldn’t help—he turned and reached for Carver, curled his hands around Carver’s neck, gentle, his thumbs on either side of Carver’s mouth, fingers skimming near the vertebrae of Carver’s spine. He pressed a kiss to Carver’s lips, light, exploratory, something that Carver could deny if he wanted to. But all he did was groan—was it need or annoyance? Or both?—and shove Cullen back into the door, fumbling for the knob though it was still locked.

Once he realized, he slipped his hand into Cullen’s jacket and pulled the key from the inside pocket. Without breaking the rhythm he set for this encounter, he managed to get the door open, lock clicking free. The door squeaked as it let them inside, damning evidence if ever there was any, loud enough that anyone in Orlais might hear it—or so it seemed to Cullen. But he didn’t care, really. No harm would come to him for this, nothing beyond the usual risks of romantic dalliances.

With Carver so close, it didn’t matter to him what those risks would entail. All that mattered was the weight and strength of his hands, the insistent push of his body as he guided them toward the bed, confident, like he knew exactly where it would be.

He pulled at the sash around Cullen’s waist, dragged his hand down Cullen’s front, peeling the jacket from his body in elegant, easy strokes. When Cullen tried to do anything, maybe remove Carver’s clothing in return, Carver just batted his hands aside and said, “Let me, please,” before kissing a trail down Cullen’s throat to settle at the base of his neck, biting and sucking at the protrusions of his clavicle as more and more of his upper body was exposed. Chest now exposed, Cullen’s skin prickled, the air a bit chill.

Cullen tried to relax. If Carver wanted to be the one in charge, that was just fine by Cullen. He just felt like…

“You’re thinking too much,” Carver said in aggrieved, impatient admonishment as he pushed Cullen down on the bed. This time when Cullen reached for him, he allowed it, helping Cullen along by pulling his boots off.

“I’m not sure you think much at all,” Cullen answered, though that wasn’t a complaint, a fond observation at most. Carver’s laugh was a victory and Cullen determined that he would do everything within his power to hear it as often as possible from here on out.

Cullen still couldn’t quite believe what was happening, even less once they were down to their underclothes and Carver was urging him back, straddling his hips as he went, like he couldn’t be away from Cullen for a moment now that they were together. It was flattering in a way, humbling in another, and Cullen couldn’t believe his luck the entire time.

“That runs in the family, I’m afraid,” Carver murmured, hand slipping down what little space it could find between their bodies. “There’s not a Hawke in all of Thedas who ever gave much thought to anything they’ve done. That’s part of our charm, I like to believe. That doesn’t always mean we’re wrong, though.”

Though Cullen was going to say something terribly witty, he was deprived of the opportunity when Carver wrapped his hand around him, wrist succeeding in keeping his underclothes out of the way. If Carver wasn’t so impatient—if Cullen wasn’t the same—they might have bothered removing those as well. But Cullen was too caught up in the sweep of Carver’s palm over him, the rhythm perfect and brutal and enough already to bring him close, closer than he would have liked, almost ready to…

That would serve him well, he thought, throwing his head back and trying to imagine any less than appetizing scenario that might keep his mind off of Carver’s clever touch. But either Carver was psychic or he just knew exactly what Cullen was trying to do, because he pinched Cullen’s chin between thumb and forefinger and said, “No, I don’t think so.”

He didn’t have to ask Cullen to open his eyes. Cullen just knew that was what he wanted, needed Cullen to do. And Cullen found right now that he didn’t want to deny Carver anything. If he came quickly, it was entirely Carver’s fault and Cullen would be happy to return the favor in whatever way Carver desired. Carver smiled down at him, hair a bit damp, pieces sticking and curling around his temples, face a bit red, and happier than Cullen had ever seen him.

It was an exceedingly good look for him and Cullen was humbled by the fact that Cullen had any part in making that happiness a reality. He’d done nothing in his life to earn it.

Carver’s smile grew crooked, took on a mischievous aspect that he recognized and couldn’t bring himself to fear in this context. Around Skyhold, in the normal course of business, it tended to mean more work for Cullen one way or the other, but when he tried to push himself up on his elbows, Carver just pushed him back, his palm splayed in the center of Cullen’s chest.

“Let me have this, hmm?” Carver asked, though it wasn’t really a question. And Cullen wouldn’t have needed to answer anyway. It seemed obvious enough to him that he would do whatever Carver wanted in whatever way he wanted to do it.

Carver worked his way back down Cullen’s body, touching and tasting every inch of him until Cullen was certain he wouldn’t be able to take it any longer, that Carver would drive him around and around the bend until all he was could be reduced to the sensations Carver was pulling from his body. Each bite and scrape of his teeth maddened Cullen. No matter how he cried out or arched his back or tugged incessantly at Carver’s hair, he would not do what he wasn’t already intending to do.

Cullen might have called it a cruelty if he didn’t love it as much as he did, if his body didn’t ache in the pleasantest ways with the need that thrummed through him. Carver could keep him here forever, he imagined wildly, and it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. He could be happy with his hands wound in the woven silk blankets for eternity if it came to it.

“Carver, I’m—” But Carver already had to know. He was hard, hot, almost to the point of pain though Carver was still more interested in sucking marks into Cullen’s body, winding, sharp things above the jut of his hipbone as Carver’s thumbs pressed deep, bruising marks into his waist. The need for release curled in the base of his spine, spread throughout his body, pushed and pushed outward though Cullen did everything he could to keep from coming already. It wasn’t right that a man could so quickly be undone, though Cullen wasn’t entirely certain he should have been surprised.

He grappled at Carver’s arm, tugged him upward. “Please, don’t,” he whispered. _I’m not ready. I want this to last_, he couldn’t add, but Carver seemed to understand it wasn’t that Cullen wanted him to stop. In fact, he never wanted him to stop, especially if this was all they might have with one another. He pulled Carver into a biting kiss and tangled their legs together and bucked against him, their bodies rubbing together in sweet, slow motions.

Unlike before, Carver didn’t push him, didn’t demand that he be allowed to do as he would. His lips were red, cheeks, too, flatteringly so, just as Cullen knew they would be. He gasped and nodded, chest heaving, their bodies sliding together, Carver’s hardness and the insistent press of his mouth the only anchors he had in all the world. His entire body felt alight, burning from within, and it was entirely possible he would lose himself in this for good if he wasn’t careful.

Maybe he wouldn’t even care if he did. It might be worth it.

Carver claimed his mouth again, eager and urgent, tugging at Cullen’s lower lip with his teeth. His hips snapped against Cullen’s, his rhythm shifting and stuttering as they both, Cullen hoped, hurtled toward completion.

Though he wished he could hold off a little while longer, just to savor it, he knew it wasn’t meant to be. And after a few more minutes of Carver’s unrelenting touch, the quick brush of his mouth against Cullen’s, the panting breaths that mingled between them as they rushed forward, wild and with abandon. He would mark this in his mind if he could, but each image slipped away, each feeling seamlessly merged into the next and the next and the next until the only thing that remained was the pleasure poised at the top of a hill, eager to be pushed that last little bit, over and over and—

Carver swore, spilled hot against Cullen’s stomach, tipping Cullen over the precipice of his own release. His muscles seized up as pleasure wracked his body, wrung everything from him, gave and demanded and gave until he collapsed back, spent, Carver sprawled across him. He breathed heavily, thickly, against Cullen’s ear and though Cullen wasn’t certain yet how welcome his touch might be, he pressed his hand against the small of Carver’s back. His fingers lingered over the puckered skin of a scar for which Cullen didn’t know the story.

He wished he did. More than that, he wished he could bring himself to ask, but that courage was not yet in him and he couldn’t unstick his throat, dry as it was and as fragile as he felt.

Carver groaned and stretched, but he didn’t roll away as Cullen might have feared.

Holding his breath, Cullen waited for the inevitable.

“I should have said something sooner,” Carver said, dreamy, slurring a bit as though stunned and still not quite able to process it. “We could have done this with a very romantic view of the stars through your ceiling.”

It was the perfect chance for Cullen to make the offer. He said nothing, offering only a noncommittal hum.

“I’ve never had sex in a lofted bed, come to think of it,” Carver continued, thoughtful. “Might be interesting.”

Cullen drew in a deep breath and released it, his heart pounding against his chest in fear rather than exertion. But he’d promised himself he’d be more courageous. He’d give Carver the chance to decide. “It’s yours if you’d like it,” he said, as casual as he knew how to be—not very, as it turned out, but the attempt was made in earnest regardless.

“Only if I’d like it?” Carver said, prodding, probing.

Cullen peered at him, eyes narrowed, fingers tightening against Carver’s spine. “I generally don’t have sex with people I don’t care about. You may take from that what you wish.”

Carver huffed a laugh and kissed the stretch of skin across his bicep, one of the few smooth places on his body. “How romantic a declaration that was.” There was a tinge of something in his voice, something that made Cullen want to say something more demonstratively romantic. But he didn’t trust himself and it was true enough that he cared about Carver.

He could say as much at least. And he did. And Carver ducked his head. “With sweet words like that, you’ll never get rid of me.”

_Good_. “I wouldn’t ask that of you if you didn’t wish it, but I wouldn’t be opposed either.”

That was true enough, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Carver seemed to see enough of it anyway, a warmth in his gaze that Cullen looked forward to stoking as often as possible going forward.

And he would find a way to say the words Carver deserved to hear.


End file.
